


The Doctor and the Mercenary

by almostafantasia



Series: Clexa Week 2019 [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece, Assassin's Creed Odyssey AU, Doctor/Patient, F/F, Healer Clarke, Mercenary Lexa, Minor Injuries, it's basically just an au set in ancient greece, no AC knowledge is needed to read this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 00:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17991533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostafantasia/pseuds/almostafantasia
Summary: Being a mercenary is a dangerous line of work. When one of Lexa’s assignments goes horribly wrong and she ends up with an arrow in her shoulder, a twist of fate brings her to the door of a pretty Athenian doctor. After that, Lexa doesn’t mind getting injured quite so much.A Clexa Assassin’s Creed Odyssey AU.





	The Doctor and the Mercenary

**Author's Note:**

> You don't need to have played Assassin's Creed Odyssey to read this fic - it works as an Ancient Greece AU too.
> 
> However if you haven't played the game:  
> misthios - mercenary  
> drachmae - Greek currency

The armoured woman falls off her horse when Clarke is out running an errand, landing in a haphazard heap at Clarke’s feet. Clarke inspects the woman carefully, noting that she is bloodsoaked and smelling oddly of gunpowder and - wait, is that an _arrow_ sticking out of her shoulder?

Oddly, in a city stricken by a war being fought between two sides that aren’t unopposed to dangerous and underhand tactics, it’s not the weirdest thing that Clarke has seen on the streets of Athens.

The injured mercenary lays on the cobbled street for long enough that Clarke wonders if she is a woman or a corpse, but eventually her arm twitches and she lets out a rasping breath.

“I’m fine,” croaks the mercenary, though she makes no attempt to move from the ground. Her horse has long since disappeared, bolting from the scene after the rider fell from its back.

“We have very different definitions of the word fine,” comments Clarke drily.

She peers down at the body at her feet, the healer within her searching for serious injuries. The arrow embedded in the mercenary’s upper arm, just below her leather pauldron, seems to be doing a pretty good job of plugging that particular wound, so Clarke suspects that the vast majority of the blood has come from elsewhere. Clarke immediately worries that there is a much deeper wound that she can’t see, perhaps inflicted by a blade.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” says the mercenary, as if sensing Clarke’s thoughts. “Most of it isn’t my blood.”

“And the arrow?” asks Clarke.

The woman’s other hand comes up to gently touch her shoulder, and she lets out a hiss of pain as her hand drops back to her side.

“That bit is as bad as it looks,” she admits.

“Lucky for you,” says Clarke, crouching down at the mercenary’s side, “I’m a healer.”

“I don’t need help,” the mercenary says brusquely.

Clarke considers the injured woman for a moment, bruised and burned and blood-soaked, quite clearly in need of medical intervention, but decides that it’s not worth pressing. If the mercenary is stupid enough to reject the help of a physician, that isn’t Clarke’s problem. There are plenty of other people in Athens who need a doctor too.

“Then I’ll be on my way,” says Clarke, straightening up and starting to walk.

She takes only two steps before the mercenary’s voice croaks out once more.

“Wait. I might need help.”

Clarke rolls her eyes. She’s encountered mercenaries before - had them stumbling (or on one occasion, unconsciously carried) through her door with various wounds that need treating - and from her experience they are all the same; arrogant, oftentimes rude, and always selfish. It seems that this one is no different to the rest.

“I can’t carry you,” Clarke tells the mercenary, offering out a hand, which the woman grasps firmly and uses to bring herself first into a seated position, then onto unsteady feet. “I hope you can walk better than you can ride a horse.”

“He was spooked by the arrows,” explains the mercenary, as if it the obvious explanation.

Clarke loops one of her arms around the woman’s waist, wincing as she feels the sticky blood soak into her pale blue tunic. The mercenary drapes a grateful arm over Clarke’s shoulders and they steadily start to walk - or hobble - back in the direction of Clarke’s house, where her medical supplies wait.

“I’m Clarke, by the way.”

“My name is Alexandria,” says the mercenary, “but most people call me Lexa.”

“Lexa,” says Clarke, testing the name out. “That’s a beautiful name, for a soldier.”

“I am not a soldier,” retorts Lexa. “Soldiers fight for armies. I fight only for myself.”

“And for the people willing to part with the most _drachmae_ ,” comments Clarke.

Lexa lets out a soft laugh, which is quickly followed by a hiss of pain.

“Are you alright?” Clarke asks her in concern, steering Lexa around the final corner to her house.

“Just a little winded,” answers Lexa. “I got thrown off the back of a horse, in case you missed it.”

“I see that your sense of humour is still in tact.” Clarke helps Lexa up a few steps and then pushes open the door to her house, supporting Lexa as she limps inside, then says, “Let’s see if you’re still laughing when I remove the arrow.”

Lexa stiffens visibly, and though Clarke can’t see her face for the helmet that she still wears, Clarke would bet _drachmae_ that there’s a worried expression on her face.

“I’m going to need you to remove some of your armour,” explains Clarke, who can barely even see where the tip of the arrow has pierced Lexa’s flesh, for the leather pauldron that half-conceals it.

With the hand of her uninjured arm, Lexa reaches up and removes her plumed helmet. It’s an awkward manoeuvre with the use of only one hand, but she manages it and carefully places the gilded headpiece out of the way on the floor. When Lexa straightens up into an upright position again, Clarke gets a proper look at her patient’s face for the first time.

She’s … well, she’s not at all what Clarke is expecting. Lexa has an elegant sort of beauty that Clarke wouldn’t imagine a mercenary to have. Sure, there are clear signs that this woman is a warrior - aside from the blood spattered across one side of her neck, Lexa has a scar on one cheek, faded and telling a story from years ago, and she wears a determined look in her eyes. But there’s also a softness, full lips and the sweep of a delicate jawline and soft brown hair pushed back into loose braids. Lexa is overt femininity masked behind the armour of a mercenary.

“Why are you staring?” asks Lexa, a frown hardening her pretty features. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Just a little blood,” Clarke is quick to answer, covering up her real reason for staring.

Lexa seems to think it an acceptable answer because she drops her questioning, instead gesturing down to the arrow still embedded in her shoulder as she says, “I might need a little help with the rest.”

Lexa turns around and shows her back to Clarke, where there are a couple of leather buckles holding the breastplate on. Clarke supposes that they would be reachable, if a little awkwardly, if the wearer has two good arms, but she is more than happy to help Lexa out of the heavy armour. She undoes the buckles with fingers that are dexterous from years of treating patients alongside her mother, then lifts the breastplate away from Lexa’s body. Clarke is careful not to touch the arrow in her shoulder, and then sets it aside next to the helmet.

It’s a lot of skin to be faced with all at once. And yes, Clarke has seen skin before, both while treating patients and in other more _intimate_ capacities, but it still takes Clarke by surprise. Lexa’s skin is lighter where it has been underneath the armour, exposed to less sun than her face and arms. Without the armour, Clarke is able to see (and appreciate) what makes this woman a mercenary, with clearly defined muscles across her shoulders and back. A back which bears an ornate tattoo the length of her spine, broken up only by the cloth bindings that wraps around Lexa’s upper chest.

Clarke’s mouth goes _very_ dry.

“Why don’t you lie down for me?” croaks Clarke, gesturing to the bed in the corner that she uses to treat her patients, in the hope that by focusing all her attention on the removal of the arrow and cleaning up the rest of Lexa’s wounds, she will be able to ignore how objectively attractive the mercenary is.

Oh how wrong Clarke is.

Because when Lexa sits, then lies down on the bed, it may hide the rippling muscles of her back, but now Clarke can see Lexa’s front, a truly glorious abdomen that Clarke finds it very difficult not to get lost while staring at.

It is a hiss of pain as Lexa lies down, that finally brings Clarke’s attention back to the task at hand. She steps up to Lexa’s side and examines the arrow, trying to work out how deep the head has gone.

“You’re lucky the arrow hit you where it did,” says Clarke, wrapping both hands around the wooden shaft of the arrow. “This might cause some discomfort.

Clarke doesn’t give Lexa any more warning about what she is about to do, and snaps the shaft of the arrow clean into two pieces, leaving a short stub sticking out of Lexa’s upper arm. Lexa lets out a cry of pain as the action causes the head of the arrow to shift inside her, but it gives Clarke an easier working space.

“Lucky?” hisses Lexa, her eyes closed and her face contorted into a grimace.

“It hit no major organs,” explains Clarke. “Just flesh. And if it had been much higher, it would have pierced your neck. I doubt you would have lived long enough to climb onto a horse if that had happened.”

With the splintered tail of the arrow in her hand, Clarke examines it and recognises by the distinctive plume of feathers belonging to the Athenian army, and knows that it must have been fired from the bow of an Athenian soldier.

“Tell me, Lexa, how does somebody end up in this state?” asks Clarke, discarding the tail of the arrow.

Lexa opens her eyes and looks at Clarke, then admits, “I set fire to an Athenian barracks.”

Well _that_ explains the smell of gunpowder and the blistering burns on the mercenary’s arm.

“Of course you did,” sighs Clarke, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head in disapproval.

Clarke turns around and adds some kindling to the small fire that burns beneath a heavy black pot. The orange flames lick around the new wood, growing in size, and Clarke carefully sets up a metal rod so that one of its tips sits in the flames.

“The arrowhead isn’t too deep,” Clarke explains, returning her attention to Lexa. “I should be able to enlarge the entry wound and pull it out, but I’ll have to close the wound with heat to stop the bleeding. It’ll hurt.”

Lexa grimaces, but replies, “So did getting shot.”

Clarke reaches for a sharp surgical knife and sharpens it on a strip of leather until she is satisfied.

“Are you ready?”

Lexa takes one look at the blade in Clarke’s hand and pales, then glances away quickly and says, “No, but do it anyway.”

Clarke smiles to herself at the thought of the brave mercenary, who must have seen her fair share of blood and taken who knows how many lives, getting pale and squeamish at the thought of a doctor removing an arrowhead embedded in her flesh. Clarke acts quickly, making an incision across the wound where the splintered arrow shaft emerges from Lexa’s shoulder. Once happy, Clarke sets the knife aside and then gets to work removing the arrowhead. Lexa hisses with pain as Clarke presses a firm hand to the wound, then lets out a yelp as the fingers of Clarke’s other hand dip into the wound and tug the arrowhead from her shoulder.

“All gone,” says Clarke, covering the wound with both hands and applying enough pressure to stem the bleeding. “Though I need to cauterise the wound. Do you know what that means?”

Lifting up her head, Lexa’s eyes flit across to where the tip of the metal rod sits in the open flame. Clarke watches as the pain in her eyes momentarily transforms into fear, but the look is gone in an instant as Lexa clenches her jaw and looks at Clarke again, nodding abruptly.

“I’m going to give you something to bite down on,” says Clarke, lifting one of her hands and reaching out for a strip of cloth, which she passes across to Lexa. “Push your tongue back and put this in your mouth.”

Lexa does as she is asked, then squeezes her eyes shut in anticipation of the pain. Clarke decides not to waste any time and relinquishes the pressure on Lexa’s wound only for long enough to take a second piece of cloth and use it to protect her hand from burns as she lifts the hot poker out of the flame. She uses precision to lower the orange tip of the rod to Lexa’s shoulder, watching the skin sizzle as the hot metal comes into contact. Lexa lets out a scream that is muffled by the gag in her mouth, and Clarke grimaces in sympathy at the extra pain she’s causing Lexa.

It takes a few touches of the poker before Clarke is convinced that the wound is properly closed. Once done, she drops the poker into the bucket of cold water, which hisses and steams violently as the hot metal hits it with a splash. Clarke quickly reaches for another rag and dips it in the water, soaking it and then wringing it out.

“There you go,” says Clarke, as she drapes the now damp rag across the cauterised wound to soothe the burn. “I think I’ve earned an explanation. Why are you burning down a barracks?”

Lexa gingerly pushes herself up into a seated position, then answers, “Why does anybody do anything?” When Clarke states at her blankly, Lexa explains, “ _Drachmae_.”

Clarke shakes her head and says, “That’s not the only thing that motivates people.”

“Oh really?” Lexa arches an eyebrow at Clarke. “What else?”

Clarke doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reaches for a second piece of cloth and dips that too in the water, before she uses it to wipe away the dried blood and filth that covers Lexa’s skin. The grime comes away easily, revealing tanned skin underneath.

“Lots of things,” answers Clarke, as she continues to clean Lexa. “Power. Love. Though some would say that those are the same.”

“Love is not power,” snorts Lexa, shaking her head in disagreement. “Love is weakness.”

Clarke arches an eyebrow at this and wonders what experiences Lexa must have had in her life to reach that abrupt conclusion.

“Love is a strength if it’s used in the right way.”

“ _Sex_ is power,” counters Lexa, the corners of her mouth turning up into a wry smile. “Or giving up power.”

Lexa’s eyes are darker and watch Clarke with a hint of suggestion in her green irises. Clarke glances away and applies herself to scrubbing the filth from Lexa’s left calf. The skin below isn’t unblemished, the dirt coming away to reveal bruises and cuts underneath. Some of them are fresh, perhaps from falling off the horse or the escapades inside the barracks shortly before, but others must be from previous incidents - bruises that are fading yellow and scratches that have scabbed over or even transformed into scars that are barely noticeable against Lexa’s skin.

The fact that Clarke is examining Lexa’s skin in such close detail in order to avoid a conversation about sex doesn’t go unnoticed by Clarke, and she feels the heat rise to her cheeks, which Lexa picks up on too.

“Does that fluster you?” teases Lexa. “Giving up power in such an intimate way?”

“Maybe I like _having_ the power,” Clarke replies without thinking. She pauses in her work and glances up at Lexa to gauge her reaction, only to find Lexa’s eyes full of surprise. Clarke laughs to herself, then adds, “Now look who is lost for words.”

Clarke switches to Lexa’s other leg and gives it the same treatment, cleaning it of the blood, most of which doesn’t seem to have come from any of Lexa’s own wounds. Clarke isn’t sure if she’s relieved at that discovery, glad that Lexa’s injuries are limited to the arrow that was embedded in her shoulder and a few small cuts, or if she’s alarmed at the realisation that the blood has most likely come from an opponent who has fared less well in combat with Lexa.

“You should take it easy for a while,” Clarke tells Lexa, dipping the rag back in the bucket of water to cleanse it of the filth, then wrings it out so that she can continue to clean Lexa’s legs. “No more arson until I say so.”

“But murder is okay?”

“No,” laughs Clarke. “Murder is not okay. No arson or murder.”

“My life is more than just arson and murder.” Lexa pauses for a moment, then concedes, “I mean, it’s _mostly_ arson and murder, but sometimes it’s other things too.”

“What’s the strangest thing somebody has ever paid you to do?”

Lexa frowns thoughtfully, then answers, “A man once paid me to seduce his own wife.”

Clarke chokes on her own tongue, and it takes her a few moments to recompose herself after that particular revelation.

“Okay, explain?”

“He thought she was passing information to his enemies so he hired me to get close to her and spy,” Lexa tells her. “And maybe his definition of “get close to her” and mine are a little different, but you can’t choose what your heart wants.”

“No, you can’t,” agrees Clarke. Eager to change the subject, Clarke drops the filthy rag aside and says, “I’m finished.”

Lexa swings her legs over the side of her bed and reaches for the little pouch attached to her belt, which jingles with coinsas she loosens the strings that hold it closed.

“How much do you want?” asks Lexa.

Clarke shakes her head and answers, “I’m not going to take your _drachmae_.”

A frown crosses Lexa’s face and she glances up at Clarke, searching Clarke’s face for an explanation.

“You … you want me to pay you in other ways?” Lexa asks, speaking slowly as if asking for clarification.

“No,” Clarke replies. “Consider it a gesture of kindness.”

Still unconvinced, Lexa asks, “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch,” shrugs Clarke. A thought crosses her mind and Clarke grins at Lexa as she adds, “But don’t think you can go and injure yourself all the time and expect me to heal you for free. Next time, you pay.”

“Next time?” asks Lexa, eyes widening in hope.

“You’re not the first _misthios_ to come through my door,” says Clarke, getting to her feet and picking up Lexa’s discarded breastplate. “I know what your kind is like. Danger and injury seem to run side by side.”

Lexa accepts her armour from Clarke and puts it on, turning around to let Clarke help her to buckle the straps that hold the breastplate in place. Once secure, Lexa bends and picks up her helmet, tucking it neatly under one arm.

“Thank you, Clarke,” says Lexa.

With the hand not holding her helmet, Lexa reaches for Clarke’s fingers and lifts Clarke’s hand up to her lips, placing a delicate kiss to the back of Clarke’s hand. The gesture sends a shiver down Clarke’s spine as Lexa’s lips brush ever so softly against her skin.

“I hope our paths cross again,” continues Lexa.

“Don’t go injuring yourself on purpose,” jokes Clarke, attempting to calm her beating heart down with laughter.

Lexa’s eyes sparkle, as she replies, “I might just have to.”


End file.
